


Dissonance and the Distortion

by AlexandeNight



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist, Blood, Dissonance, Gen, Injury, M/M, Whump, hurt comfort, stab, the distortion has always been a bad friend, wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandeNight/pseuds/AlexandeNight
Summary: Directly after Michael's visit in Mag 47 (a new door), Jon prioritizes theorizing over taking care of the stab wound.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 13
Kudos: 115





	Dissonance and the Distortion

“Do you even know that they are lying to you?”

_ Lieing?  _

Who's lying? 

What was he- _ it _ talking about? Why wouldn’t he- _ it _ just tell him what was going on!

Another sharp throb caused Jon to curl tighter about his middle. 

Stabbed by Michael. 

As far as Jon could tell, it was little more than a glorified scratch... an  _ annoyance _ . He pressed the tissues tighter to the small gash.

Jon hadn’t spared a thought to the dark stain blossoming through his sweater vest, the sticky damp under his fingers or the growing weakness in his limbs. The whole encounter with Michael had left him drained. And Helen- 

_Good Lord_ **_Helen_**.

The conversation played on loop in his head, but instead of answers, Jon only had more questions. What had Michael meant by  _ unballence the structure _ ? It didn’t seem to be in reference to its own strange doors and corridors. 

_ Doors... _

Jon shivered, recalling another strange door that had lied about its destination and a childish book with _A Guest for_ _Mr. Spider_ splashed crossed its front. A boy whose name was lost to memory…. Why couldn't he remember? Why couldn’t he remember the brute of a boy who had _saved_ his life all those years ago? Helen had been taken, just as the boy had been. Right in front of him and there was nothing he could do _! Oh god_! He was just a _useless_ , deeply _annoying_ man and there was- 

He yanked himself back to the present. But he couldn’t seem to stop the  _ shaking _ . 

Michael seemed more than a little unbalanced themself- _ itself _ , he corrected. “ _ I am not a  _ **_who_ ** _ , archivit, I am a  _ **_what_ ** ” 

Right. 

It was plain that Michael viewed the archives as a place of importance. Even Prentiss had bore animosity against the institute.  _ It _ had laughed when Jon had asked about a war, but if it wasn’t a war, then what was it? And if it  _ was  _ a war, then why wouldn’t Michael just say so? What was the point of Michael coming to  _ talk _ to him in the first place?

“ _ Don’t want to tarnish your ignorance too early _ .” the voice came swirling back. Jon prickled. If there was one thing he hated it was being left in the dark. Treating him as little more than a petulant and annoying child who asked too many questions. He had genuinely believed that those days were behind him. As it was, it left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Tiredly, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the fog that had settled over his mind. 

Helen Richardson- 

She had been there not  _ moments  _ before, asking for answers, for help- Michael had taken her away so easily- treating it as though it was  _ nothing _ . How had he not noticed the door?! Jon used to be so careful.  _ Useless! _ He was useless and could no more help Helen than he could figure out Gertruede Robinson’s murderer!

Rewinding the tape and pressing play. “ _ Do you even know they’re lying to you?”  _

Who,  _ damn it _ , who was lying?

Despite himself, Jon was inclined to believe Michael. There was something  _ off _ about the archives that went beyond malicious books and supernatural statements. The Jane Prentiss incident had made that abundantly clear. Pretending that the problem didn’t exist had nearly gotten him killed. Hadn’t Michael tipped Sasha off about how to fight the worms? Even digging one out of her with those swollen sharp hands? 

Jon groaned. Sure that this tied to Gertrude in some fashion, but unable to see the connecting threads. He was so  _ tired _ . 

Where was Sasha with that replacement statement? Jon made to stand but the pain flared and bial raised in his throat.  _ Right  _ he thought, taking a moment to breathe. Waiting for the tremmors to subside and for the room to stop spinning,  _ bad idea. _ Dimly, he wondered if he needed help, but quickly shook it off. He didn’t want to explain what happened. It might tip  _ them _ off. 

“ _ Do you even know they’re lying to you _ ?” 

_ Who _ was lying? 

The question rooted itself in his mind like a bad tune stuck in one’s head. Playing over and over. 

So instead, Jon pulled the sticky notes to him, uncapping the fountain pen and started mapping out his limited information and queries. Laying them out on the reverse of his blotter. It felt-important-to keep this quiet. 

_ Michael the What.  _ Normally neutral? What did  _ it  _ know? 

_ Gertrude Robinson, murdered.  _ With a  _ gun _ , no less. No supernatural forces, just a gun. 

_ The tunnels. _ He shivered, the last exploration had been far more eventful than he would have liked. Arrows and strange wall moving figures aside, who else would have known about the tunnels, yet alone knew to hide a body there?

_ Gertrude Robinson’s tape collection _ , right now, Constable Basira Hussain was his only hope to get access to the tapes. 

_ War _ ? He lacked a better term for now, but wondered what role the institute played in this conflict. He wondered what the conflict  _ was  _ even. Did it have anything to do with Gertrude Robinson’s death?

_ The deeper mystery of the institute files _

_ Missing taped statements of 0051701 & 0160204  _

Jon jotted down the archival staff

_ Sasha.  _ Though Jon was inclined to take Sasha off the list, he was the one who should have gotten the promotion, not him. Now he felt more like a buffer between her and whatever it was targeting the Head Archivist position. 

_ Tim.  _ Tim-having his name down hurt more than he would have thought. They’d gotten along in research- but now- things were different. Jon couldn't think of a reason to take him off. 

And  _ Martin _ , what did he really know of the man? Not much other than he wasn’t a  _ ghost  _ ( _ lord _ , had he really been that stupid?) and that he seemed to be hiding  _ something _ . 

_ Elias _ ? He had maintained that calling Gertrude’s disappearance a death was a formality. Mentioning something about a lot of blood. But what had made him so certain? Did he know anything about the  _ War _ or… Jon noted the questions down, plastering them under the names as they came. 

And, finally, a reminder to himself  _ Trust can get you killed. _

“Right-” he said, looking down at the hastily arranged post-it notes. It was hardly a satisfying list, with more questions and missing information than answers. But it was a start. 

With a great deal of effort, he flipped over the blotter once more, hiding the notes. Feeling the fatigue weighing down his arms. Without knowing who the ‘ _ they’ _ were that were lying to him, he didn’t want anyone to see that he was...suspicious. 

He paused at the smear of gore on the edge of the blotter. The world spinning around the scarlet smudge. Jon would have to clean that up...but... latter. His eyes felt heavy, his  _ body  _ felt heavy. He sighed, tugging the files, laptop and recorder back over the edge of the blotter,  _ nothing to see here. _

_ Lord _ he was tired _. _

Perhaps he would rest his eyes...just a moment. He slumped over his desk, pressing in on his stomach, trying to alleviate the pain that had made its home there. 

Dimly he was aware of Sasha entering his office. At least, he thought she did, but it could have been a dream. 

She had teased him about sleeping on the job and laughed at the mess he’d made of his work space. “I hope you know I’m not going to straighten this up too.” she’d said lightly.

He hadn’t asked her to tidy the  _ discredited section _ \- and he certainly didn’t need her fiddling with his desk. 

“You’ll ruin your neck sitting like that.” A hand at his back, warm, gentil and- _ wrong _ , as if stretched thin. For a second he thought Michael had returned. Why was he so cold? “Anyways, I’m going to borrow the tape recorder for the statement. Cheers.”

Rustling at his desk, footsteps and Sasha was gone. 

Gone.

Something about it seemed to echo eerily in Jon’s mind. He cracked open an eye.

The tape recorder was gone! 

Panic gripped him. The tape! Helen’s statement and Michael- What if Sasha didn’t use a new tape! He couldn’t let Helen be erased like the boy. He had to check! He had to-to-

The adrenaline that had pulled Jon to his feet flead. This was a mistake. The room wouldn’t hold steady, tugging him this way and that. A static buzzing filled his ears and the blackness took him. 

Martin gave Jon’s door a tentative knock “Jon?” he called. He’d learned to give Jon a warning before he walked in. He was really jumpy these days. “Jon, you there?” no answer, but the desk light was on so maybe he’d stepped out. “I’ve got your tea here.” 

Still nothing. Martin shrugged, he’d leave it on his desk. Jon would find it, he always did. Since the man hadn’t made a showing for lunch, again, Martin made it a point of ensuring he got a bit of sweet tea in. For all Jon’s insisting that he was a grown man who knew how to look after himself, he certintally let a lot slide. 

Martin didn’t mind that. Especially after the worms and Gertrude- he shuddered, recalling how he’d found her, her  _ corpse _ , in the tunnels. No, Martin didn’t mind making sure Jon was looked after. Nowadays, he’d taken to holding everyone at arm's length. Something Martin had…. personal experience in. Jon had never been  _ friendly _ , with their nicest conversation taking place in the refuge of document storage. It had been surprising to find under that stuffy exterior, Martin found something rather  _ endearing.  _ But the recent change had hurt to see all the same.

“Alright, I’m coming in.” 

From somewhere behind him, Martin could hear Tim give a derisive snort. Things had been...tense. 

At first glance, the office was as empty as he had expected it to be. He placed the tea on Jon’s desk and frowned. There on the floor, he caught sight on an arm.

Jon’s arm. 

Concern fluttered to life in Martin’s chest. Had he fainted? He was certainly running himself a bit thin these days but-

“Jon!” 

There was blood, thick and sticky, pooling on the floor. He was on his side in a strange position. Martin dove to his knees besides the man, shouting his name. He looked small there, his complexion pasty, a sheen of cold sweat on his furrowed brow. 

Carefully, oh so carefully, Martin scooped Jon up into his arms. 

“Jon! Christ, Jon!  _ Please  _ wake up!” he felt for a pulse, still there, and started patting his face. “Please wake up!” he was limp in Martin’s arms, cold.  _ God _ , how much blood had he lost? Where was the wound even? He started calling for help. Hoping against hope that they would hear him, that they would come. 

“Martin? What are you-  _ Jesus _ .” Tim was looking down in horror. “What the hell?”

Martin shook his head. “No idea, he won’t wake up!” 

“What’s going on?” asked Sasha, peering over Tim’s shoulder. 

“ _ Jon _ .” Tim put a strange emphasis on his name. 

She shouldered her way in to have a proper look, frowning as she did so. “Strange, he was fine a couple hours ago when I went to borrow the tape recorder.” 

“Just go and ring 999 or something!” demanded Martin in a shrill tone, feeling for the origin of the bleed.  _ Oh god, oh, god oh god! _ he chanted inwardly  _ this is bad!  _ There! a hole on the front of his vest the size of his thumb. Could something like that truly lead to so much blood? He tugged Jon’s vest and shirt up out of the way revealing Jon’s stomach. Each bone of his ribs and the line of his hip stood out in relief against his brown skin. The red making spongy smears across the surface. The small gash was still bleeding. “And some paper towels!” 

Wounds of this size weren’t supposed to bleed this much, were they? Or had something else been hit? Tim shoved some paper towels into his hands and Martin immediately pressed them over the injury. 

There was a small moan, and Jon’s eyes, those piercing deep brown eyes, started to flutter open. Relief crashed into Martin. 

“Jon?!”

He groaned, hand finding the wad of paper. The pressure-it was a bit... much. 

“Jon, can you hear me?”

It took a moment for his eyes to focus, “Ma-Martin?”

“Quick on the uptake I see boss.”

Confusion flooded his system followed by fear. All of his assistance surrounding him when he’d just been- he swallowed. “Wha-why m’ I on the floor?” his voice came soft and jagged. 

“We were hoping you could answer that.” Tim replied “And explain where you got that hole in your gut.”

It was then that Jon looked down at himself. His shirt hiked up to his chest and Martin forcing tissues down over his stomach. It hurt-why was that? He drew heavy legs up instinctively, as if curling into a ball. 

“M-Matin- What are you doing?” 

Martin blushed head to toe “Hopefully preventing you from bleeding out.”

“Oh, oh right-” he trailed off. It came back then, Michael and his too sharp hands and their little confrontation. The  _ doors-  _ Should have paid more attention. “Right-”

“So should I call 999? Or-” Sasha had her phone out, looking around at the group. 

Martin and Tim said yes at the same time Jon said No. He said it so loud and forcefully that it sent his whole body trembling, and stomach souring. 

“N-no need for that.” Jon pantted. He was aware enough to start feeling embarrassed at the whole affair. A scene was  _ not _ something he had wanted to cause. He  _ hated  _ all the attention, all the fuss, reminding him so much of that day and the bully who’d saved his life. His grandmother had been so angry. It all intensified the  _ watched  _ feeling. It would be better to deal with it alone. He-he could make it to an A&E. 

“What do you mean, no need?” scoffed Tim “There’s enough red here to re-decorate your office!”

“An exaggeration-” Jon said stiffly. 

“Hardly.” Tim snorted. “Still haven’t told us what happened.” Tim pressed, hand on hip. An impatience Jon recognized from research. Knowing he had to say something, anything or Tim would dig and dig and dig-

“A, a bread knife!” Jon blurted out the first thing that had come to mind, and instantly wanted to shove his foot in his mouth.

“A  _ bread knife _ ?”

Closing his eyes against the swirling world, Jon decided to double down “A bread knife. Turns out-” he swallowed “Lunch is more... _ hazardous _ than I was led to believe.” he gasped. He’d never be able to live this one down. 

_ Lord,  _ he  _ hurt _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> After Mag187-checking out, I decided to go back and look at all the instances the distortion has been a backstabbing little weazel. Loved them, but not sad at what happened.  
> Anyways, feeding a scared archivist paranoia, and stabbing them is not what friends do for each other. And Jon ended up losing Tim as a friend because he couldn't set the paranoia aside in time.


End file.
